


Busy Hands

by ko_drabbles



Category: Ouran High School Host Club - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Childhood Sweethearts, Gen, Intrusive Thoughts, Mental Breakdown, OCD, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Panic Attacks, Past Relationship(s), sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-13
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2018-12-27 16:21:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12084741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ko_drabbles/pseuds/ko_drabbles
Summary: He has to keep writing, in black ink on white paper. He has to keep his hands busy.





	1. Paper

He had to do it. He had to write, draw tables and charts, solve equations. The pen had to scratch on high quality paper, had to leave trails of black ink on the stark white surface.

The ink must be black, never blue, always black; that way it matches the cover of his ever-present notebook.

Writing. Writing. Writing.

He writes anything he needs to, wants to, is able to; he needs it. He needs his hands to be busy so that he can't hurt his father, his brothers, his sister, Tachibana; **never** his sister or Tachibana. If his hands aren't busy, they could move without him thinking and he needs to do that.

Equation. Draw a chart. Statistics. Draw a chart. The idiot behind him should stop snoring so loud because, yes, no one wants to be there while the teacher drones on and on about mental health, ironically oblivious to the fact that he's nearly breaking down from his own disorder, but they are and he should be awake or at least quiet. Draw a chart.

Always draw a damn chart.

Spot on his desk. Panic. He needs to clean it because it should be clean and he should clean it and it'll keep his hands busy so cleaning is **what he should be doing**. However, the surface wipes he carries around are stuffed in his satchel and it's on the back of his chair and the teacher will know he's cleaning and not listening instead of deluding herself with the notion that he's taking notes.

What else would the student at the top of the class do, right?

Yes, yes, right, write. Keep writing. He has to keep writing or he'll strangle the inconsiderate moron behind him, and that's something he **can't do**.

Maybe he should still be taking his pills, but he **can't** be dependent on them, like he can't stop writing because it keeps his hands busy.

Great, now Tamaki's yawning and it's almost as annoying as the snoring behind him, but yawning is less consistent. However, it's over sooner than snoring is.

Another yawn, keep writing. He **can't** hurt Tamaki even more so than he can't hurt the aggravation behind him because Tamaki is his **best friend** and he mustn't.

No more charts. No more equations. He can't think of what to write because he can't focus enough to take notes like he **should** but he has to write **something**.

_I don't know what to write._

_I don't know what to write._

_I don't know what to write._

_I don't know what to write._

_I don't know what to write._

He scratches the same sentence along the stark white page in black ink which is always black because it has to be. He looks insane, he's sure, and he supposes he is; 'I don't know what to write' becoming his own 'all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy'.

Wasn't that Jack Nicholson's issue, anyway?

Keep writing. Tight chest, shallow breaths, burning throat. Keep writing.

Keep writing. Keep writing. Bell. Chairs scraping. The teacher calling out information that's never heard or listened to. Keep writing. Keep writing.

He could clean if he wanted to, but the pen is still scratching the paper. He's ok, his hands are busy, he can't breath, the spot's still there.

Keep writing. Keep writing. Keep writing. Don't stop or you'll hurt them because you're sick and need to keep your hands busy. Keep writing. Keep writing. Keep writing.

_I don't know what to write._

_I don't know what to write._

_I don't know what to write._

_I don't know what to write._

_I don't know -_

"Kyouya? Kyouya, calm down!"

_\- what to write._

"Breath, Kyouya!"

Keep writing. Keep writing. Keep writing. Keep writing. Wide eyes, quick breaths, drowning lungs. Keep writing. Keep writing. Keep writing. Keep writing.

_I don't know what to write._

_I don't know what to write._

"Kyouya, mon ami, please stop writing!"

Keep writing. Keep writing. Keep writing. Keep writing. Keep writing. He can't stop. Busy hands. Can't hurt them. Organised. Clean. Neat. Informed. Choking. Drowning. Dying. Keep writing. Keep writing. Keep writing. Keep writing. Keep writing.

Draw another chart.


	2. Light Switch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On, off, on, off. You have to keep going, don't stop. On, off -
> 
> Is that blood?

The next day brought a lot more anxiety than Kyoya was typically used to, and that was saying something. His book was to stay at home, he had to allow himself to let his hands be idle, he had to try and get over these compulsions. His father wasn’t a psychologist, he just read papers about it. How could he know? It could be him who got hurt. He could hurt his own father, like a horrible person, because he would. He’d hurt people.

He was shaky as he walked along the corridor, wringing his hands. He was already sweaty, but almost freezing, and he didn’t know if he could last another hour – let alone the whole day – like this. It wasn’t so much not writing for that time – it wasn’t a consistent compulsion – but the anxiety of it being _forbidden to him_. It was as if he were on a high wire, the safety net pulled out from under him, as if that would somehow make the show more interesting.

Show. Circus. Safety net. He always hated the circus, he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was the risk of death, the open flames, the audience participation; he hated it and Tachibana let him stay at home whenever Fuyumi begged to go see it. Everything was scary. Going outside was terrifying. Still, he couldn’t be a hikikomori; he had to be a successful, functioning member of society – another reason why he couldn’t write. Why his father gave him pills he never took and urged him to attempt recovery. He hated it so much, and no one ever seemed to take him seriously.

Who else got violent thoughts when alone and with nothing to do? He really was a freak.

Still, stepping into the classroom made him feel as if all of the oxygen was removed; that he was in some sort of hellish vacuum where he didn’t belong, but everyone else seemed to. So many people, too many, and it wasn’t like the whole class was even there yet. He couldn’t move. His feet were stuck to the floor as firmly as if he’d been cemented there. The light above a small group in the corner gave his sick imagination too much fuel; sparks, fire, broken glass.

Ouran had good janitors and maintenance workers, but was that ever enough? It only took a moment for these things to spiral out of control and hurt others. His hand reached out, pale and twitching, pads pressed against the switch – 1, 2, 3, 4, on, off, on, off.

The sound in the room gradually filtered into silence, the gaze of other students on his back, the weight of judgement compressing his chest further. He knew they were all staring, because who wouldn’t? A member of the Ootori family was flicking the lights on and off in a cold sweat; even without knowing what was running through his head, it was still incredibly strange.

“Kyoya?”

He distantly heard Tamaki’s voice, but he was too absorbed in his compulsion to really do anything with that information. He heard everything, his mind just fumbled when it came to actually processing it. There was worry there, an undercurrent of _stop_ and _you shouldn’t do this_. Despite Tamaki being his best friend, he could never understand how Kyoya thought when it came to this. He didn’t understand the logic, which was fair enough because Kyoya wasn’t too sure sometimes himself.

“Kyoya, you have to stop,” Tamaki stated, voice stronger and calmer than it was the day before, but he _couldn’t_. That was the issue. If he did, people would get hurt and there’d be blood, so much blood, and a guilty conscience that would rip him apart at the seams.

20, 21, off, on, off –

“Ridiculous…” Tamaki muttered, Kyoya not hearing the rest of it as his closest friend _grabbed his hand_ , pulling it away from the switch. The other hand. Would it work with the other hand? Yes, yes, check the lights, on, off, on, off. But no, because Tamaki now had the both of them, and he couldn’t rip free of the grip around his wrists.

“Let go of me! Get off! Stop touching me!” Kyoya yelled, like he did back in elementary school when the well-meaning teachers’ aid tried to stop the flickering lights then, too. Tamaki _didn’t understand_ , he had to do it or they’d all die.

“Kyoya, calm. Calm down,” Tamaki tried to soothe, but it all came out far too harsh and Kyoya was too far gone to really listen. Another reason why he hated the circus, spectacle. That’s what they were, right now. He was just the freak, and this was the ringleader. He just continued to try and break free, people staring as he got more and more frustrated, more and more upset, until suddenly –

_CRACK!_

He didn’t even register the blood, or what he did. He just heard Tamaki give a nasal cry of pain, a few crimson spots appearing on the floor, accompanied by the gasps of a few classmates. On, off, on, off, 39, 40, 41 – back to checking the switch. Sixty, sixty is a good number, a safe number, and he had to get to it or the light would burst, raining down broken glass and electrical sparks; the school might even catch on fire.

“Ootori?” Another voice inquires, and if he were more stable his mind would be cast back to a mountain villa at night and stargazing and soft lips, all of which amounted to nothing but financial gain and a small crack in his armour, “Ootori, what number are you on?”

“Fifty three, fifty four, fifty five…” He lists off, lights flickering in time with his breathy, panicked numbers. But, like that, he gets to his lovely, safe number – sixty, always to sixty, no more and no less – and he immediately slackens. The tension that held him up so stiffly was gone, and he was so relieved that he almost fell to the floor.

“Sixty. That’s better, yeah? That’s your number?” Kazuhiro tried to soothe, but that just got his back up once more.

“Don’t patronise me,” He snapped, as if he hadn’t just spent all too much time flicking the light switch on and off, “It’s… It’s a thing. I’m fine.”

Eloquent.

“Right, Ootori, I understand that, but you _did_ just punch Suoh in the face. You haven’t been like this for a while, and…” Kazuhiro’s voice filtered out, overtaken by screams and confusion that created a cacophony that only he could hear. Because he was crazy, and that’s what crazy people were like. Kazuhiro tried to be gentle, voice soft and low as if he was talking to some wild animal. Wasn’t that what it was like, though? He made Tamaki bleed without even processing it…

“I’m not crazy,” He almost whimpered, as if he was the injured one and not his best friend, nails that had to be cut to the quick raking across his arm and leaving red raw marks, “I… It didn’t work. It didn’t work, why…? He stopped me, he stopped me, and he got hurt, it’s why I have to do it, I don’t want… I don’t want that…”

“Ootori. Ootori, I need you to breathe, alright? We’re going to slow this down. The girls are going to take Suoh to the nurse, and I’m going to hold your hands. We’re going to go sit down, calm down, and then we’ll see where to go from there,” Kazuhiro explained, soft hands so careful and delicate as they took his own, “There we are. You shouldn’t do that, your arms…”

“It helps,” He offered, biting his lip and feeling completely sick from anxiety and just… everything. It was too much, really; scratching gave him something to focus on and kept his hands busy. His father – and Tachibana, and Fuyumi, and _everyone_ – insisted that he cut his nails as short as possible to avoid him hurting himself too much. He still managed to, persistence was his specialty, and so his skin was red and messy. No broken skin, but blotchy.

“Honestly, I find that hard to believe.”

Kyoya just looked away, awkwardly standing as he held hands with Kazuhiro, of all people. Or Akiyama, as he should say. That was literal years ago now, and it wasn’t like it was that big in the first place. Besides, Akiyama still used “Ootori”, so it was more a testament to his passed naivety. After all, he was just a hot mess at this point, the least he could do was remember basic courtesy…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why have I written another chapter after all this time? Blame Tumblr. Why am I making it a big thing? I'm me.
> 
> Kazuhiro isn't a complete OC???? He's the guy who invited Kyoya to the mountain villa in And So Kyoya Met Him. Shipping Kyoya with a background character? Truly, I'm a mess. Hope you stick around regardless, and comments make my day, so feel free to leave one.


	3. Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His hands are those of a crazy person, picked and peeled and sore. Pour salt and bleach in the wounds, let the sting clear his head, as if that was really possible.
> 
> Maybe, if the sting was from electric shocks and his arms were secured in a straitjacket.

Kyoya had once found the decorations in the headmaster’s office calming. He was only little then, however; Suoh-san asking so calmly about his… quirks. That was what they were back then – odd, a red flag, but not inherently bad. Just distracting to the other kids. The only thing he seemed particularly concerned about was how he acted towards the teacher’s aide. At the time, he’d called her mean, but now he understood her point of view. He understood that not everyone had the thoughts he did.

It only got really bad in the third year of elementary school. He flicked light switches, compulsively scrubbed his desk with antiseptic wipes, had his hands wrapped in gauze and bandages due to a few chemical burns he’d acquired while trying to scrub down the second-floor bathroom in his house for what seemed to be the hundredth time. All he could see behind his eyes was blood, his mother laying pale on the floor as his father pleaded with her to just stay with him.

However, that was a long time ago. Now, he just sat in an office that was uncomfortably similar to some psychiatrist’s – and he’s seen them. It was a half-hearted venture on his father’s part to drag him there, kicking and screaming. Not literally, he’d just dissociated and stared out the window, but the feeling was all the same; he already hated the pills, he’d hate _talking_. And he did. The old man wouldn’t let him fidget or do any of the compulsions he relied on. That his mind forced him to do. He hated that old man so much that he forced himself to forget his name.

“Kyoya,” Yuzuru began, putting down the phone after a brief chat with his father explaining the bare bones of the event. Kyoya just interlaced his fingers, pulling them apart roughly and feeling the burn along the dry, sensitive patches of skin his “overly thorough” washing created, “Kyoya, can you look at me a second? I just want to know you’re… here.”

“Of course I am, where else would I be?” He answered, too fast and too brusque, nowhere near the smooth delivery he’d had in his head. He looked up for a moment, then went back to his continual fiddling and picking at his hands. There was torn skin, torn cuticles, and it all looked rather ugly; a sharp contrast to both Tamaki’s soft, manicured nails as well as Mori’s large, callused hands. His weren’t the hands of a prince or a hardened fighter, they were the ones of a crazy person. Nail length monitored so he wouldn’t scratch himself bloody, everything ragged from continual biting and picking at dry skin, just… ugly.

“Look, Kyoya, I’m really not angry with you, and neither is Tamaki. You aren’t in trouble,” Yuzuru clarified.  Kyoya knew to believe it, even if it seemed unlikely; he did possibly break Tamaki’s nose. Besides, even if Yuzuru and Tamaki weren’t, he was pissed off with himself. He prided himself on being at least semi-functional – wasn’t that depressing? – and this was a contradiction. A functional person does not punch their best friend in the face for stopping them from flicking light switches, “Your father will be here soon, and we’ll discuss it together. While you won’t have to face disciplinary action, something clearly needs to be done.

He was right about that, but he didn’t answer. He merely continued to pick at his hands, tearing off loose flesh with his teeth, sore and stinging but… Better? Yes, that seemed about right. His hands would always look ugly, but it was some sort of false tidying. It wasn’t ragged if the skin was peeled off, after all. Or maybe it was the sparks of pain and the occasional warm, salty taste that kept him somewhat grounded? Honestly, he’d given up trying to give his madness a method when it wasn’t already clear. It wasn’t pure crazy like that, to him; that was doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. He was doing the same thing over and over to prevent differing results.

Yuzuru didn’t really say much beyond asking him if he had the keyring his father got him, the fidget toy clipped on his bag proclaiming him “NOT NORMAL” in the mesh of its bright pink plastic. He’d rather peel his fingers down to the sinew. He didn’t answer, and Yuzuru probably didn’t expect him to; it was a benefit of being crazy, he supposed. He’d probably trade it in for the mental stability and calm he’d have without his condition, but life isn’t fair.

“Apologies for being late,” His father’s voice intoned, cutting through the awkward silence. It brought his attention away from his now bloody cuticles, if only for a moment or two, and it wasn’t long before there was a presence at his side and a tired sigh, a few bandaids materialising in front of his eyes from his father’s pocket, painfully rehearsed. Colourful ones, patterned with watermelons and hearts; what was once “cool” and fun to pick out now felt demeaning and childish, but he just about managed to tear himself away from his compulsive picking to apply them.

“Not at all, Ootori-san,” Yuzuru waved away, bringing up some records on his computer, which reflected in the large window pane behind him. Not enough to see what was written, unfortunately, just enough to have an idea of the important discussion that was about to take place. The headmaster was concerned, he wasn’t going to spend all of two minutes on this, “As I mentioned on the phone, I think we need to talk about Kyoya’s recent rough patch. He’s been worse than he’s been for years, and earlier today…”

He just zoned out, unwilling to listen and see the inevitable disappointment on his father’s face. It wasn’t like he did this to spite him but, while he did know that it wasn’t like he thought… His father always seemed so… Disappointed. He knew he wasn’t much to be proud of like this, an anxious, obsessive-compulsive wreck who just couldn’t seem to act normal. Who always stayed too long cleaning up the clubroom, scrubbing it down with bleach. The other boys were outdoorsy, Hani-senpai had sticky fingers from the sugary icing adorning his favourite cakes, God only knew what else. He hated how unknown it all was, and he didn’t care that the bleach hurt his hands.

“I’m sorry to be the one to suggest this… But perhaps you should really start to consider inpatient care –”

That snapped him out of his near trance, a small gasp escaping but nothing more. He wanted to just blank it, everything was fine, it was standard procedure to talk to parents when their child hit someone. He wasn’t that bad, he wasn’t. He really wasn’t. God, he needed to calm down. He couldn’t just freak out, then he might as well be signing his own admission papers. Sane people didn’t overthink to the point where they had panic attacks over possible treatment options, because that was just pathetic. It wasn’t even his disorder, really; it was all the same reasons.

He hated pills, he hated therapy, he even hated patterned plasters and fidget toys. Anything linked to his messy head was immediately despised, and it wasn’t something that Kyoya could make an argument for. Ask him why he scrubs the bathroom over and over, and he’ll stitch together his disordered thoughts just enough to make a coherent, if delusional, argument. However, ask why he refuses anything that would help in the slightest, and he would just throw out the first excuse his mind gave him, partially true or not.

“Kyoya’s my son, Yuzuru,” His father stated coldly, eyes narrowed, and he really must be annoyed if he was using first names in this setting, “I can take care of him myself. He didn’t like the idea of therapy, so inpatient would just be overly stressful and altogether a waste of time and resources. I keep up to date with the latest papers and research on Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, and I make sure he’s well cared for. It’s enough.”

There he goes again, talking for him with the best of intentions. That way, when Kyoya did get frustrated, he just felt like an ass for letting himself get angry at his father’s attempts to help him; it wasn’t like he was easy to deal with. Still, he was both right and wrong; he would never want inpatient care, at all, but there was the illogical hurt of not being asked about it. That, and his father wasn’t a psychologist; he was a doctor turned businessman; like Yuuichi would be. After all, despite Tamaki’s starry-eyed assertions, crazy people didn’t head companies; he was just a _strange boy_.

“Kyoya, get your bag,” His father instructed, and he obediently did so, if stiffly and slowly, “I think you need to rest; you look exhausted. We’ll go home, have something to eat, then you can go relax in your room.”

Planned, fixed, perfect, set in stone… Claustrophobic and crushing. He hated it.


	4. Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was suffocating.

Kyoya hated the silence that seemed to fill the car as he and his father were driven home, as well as the concerned looks Tachibana gave him, reflected in the rear-view mirror. It was almost suffocating, being trapped in such a small space with next to no sound, painfully awkward. How would his father act at home? How would they all act? God, he didn't know if he could take this much longer before he started pulling out his hair...

His leg bounced up and down quickly, automatically, and if it weren't for the woollen gloves that Yoshio had made him put on, he'd be picking at his fingers once more. He wanted to sleep, feeling all too tired, but he was too wired to have any hope of drifting off. It was like he was on some sort of caffeine high, and he couldn't come down. After all, there's only so much you can do if you're obsessive compulsive, and everything must be just so to prevent disaster.

Of course, he knew that flicking the light switches on and off sixty times wouldn't prevent a fire, but he still had to do it. His brain twisted up his logic to fit intrusive thoughts that only seemed to get worse.

The car pulled up, and Yoshio got out with little hesitation, probably feeling the effects of the stagnant silence all too much. Kyoya, however, couldn't get out until he'd removed that smudge off of the inside handle. It was only a fingerprint, but he didn't want to touch it with no idea of whether it was just the natural oils from someone's fingertips or something dirtier.

His hand wipes were removed from his satchel, one in his hand almost within the same second. It was automatic, and it was practised.

After finally managing to open the door and exit the car, looking away from his father and to the floor, he felt the uncertainty claw at his throat once more. You fix one thing, and then something else breaks; only, in this sort of scenario, you don't know what's broken and so you have to fix _everything_ \- over and over again. Rituals were a comfort, compulsions were completed to prevent what was portrayed in obsessive thoughts.

Still, Yoshio's gaze seemed to burn him with its intensity. He didn't look at his father's face long enough to distinguish the emotions behind that stare, but the default assumption was angry. Disappointed. _Ashamed_. There was little to no grounds for said assumptions - _usually_ \- but today was different. Today, he'd punched Tamaki in the face and made a fool of himself. Today, he unravelled. Today, he was undeniably _different_ , and that _wasn't okay_.

His father never said that, but he felt it. Kyoya wasn't normal, he was divergent. He was gay, he liked skirts and dresses, he had all these impulsive and violent thoughts swirling around his head... He wasn't someone that could be called an _ideal son_. Expectant parents never daydreamed about having a child like him. He wasn't the perfect golden boy, far from, and he was disappointed in himself for not achieving that standard.

“You had your gloves on,” His father pointed out, his voice just sounding tired. Tired of the day, tired of Yuzuru's concern, tired of having a _freak like him_ for a son. The list could go on, too, “You wouldn't have to touch it...”

“But I had to clean it,” He answered, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. As if he himself actually understood it, which he didn't - not really. He had to clean it because, otherwise, he and the rest of his family would get sick? It didn't work like that, over-sanitation was much worse as it compromised the immune system - didn't give it the opportunity to fight of viruses and bacteria by itself, making the host much more susceptible to illness. But he still had to clean it; like he had to keep writing to avoid hurting someone, like he had to switch the light switches on and off so there wouldn't be a fire, like all his food had to be separate or he'd get sick.

It made no sense, and that was the problem. That was the divide between him and everyone else. No one really understood. There were those who treated him better than the rest - Fuyumi, Yuuichi - then there was his father and Akito. They both wanted what was best for him, of course, but the opinions they had on how to help him were so different. They clashed, almost constantly, and it stressed everyone out.

His brother said that tough love was best; stop him from acting on his compulsions, mix his food, stop him from relying on those crutches. His father, however? Well, his approach was probably best described as coddling. If it didn't hurt anyone, including Kyoya himself, then it was acceptable. Not desired, of course, but what could you do? If it eased the anxiety, then it was alright; who cares if he's weird?

Still, however much Kyoya relied on his compulsions as a crutch, he didn't like that approach, either. It felt like he was a child. Like he wasn’t nearly an adult, and he’d never have the capacity to have his own freedom and move out. That he was going to be regarded as a patient for his whole life, needing some sort of caretaker to stop him from clawing the veins and arteries out of his forearms or from drinking bleach in the hopes of cleansing his insides.

That obsessive thought had only ever gotten stuck in his head once, but still. Burning from the inside out, purified by fire; it felt too much like something his aunt would read from that damn Bible of hers.

But sometimes – most times – life was just… disappointing. He was going to be the same as he’d always been; a world where his thoughts weren’t seeped in blood and violence seemed so _far away_. It didn’t seem _possible_ , much less likely, and he caught himself scratching at his arm once more as he thought about it; not that he could do any damage with the soft wool of his gloves between his nails and his skin.

“Kyoya… Kyoya, talk to me,” His father tried to prompt him, sounding so _worried_ that it made Kyoya sick. This was what he did; freak out over nothing and then make everyone else worry. It wasn’t fair to them. Just because he couldn’t get his head on straight didn’t mean that they should be left to pick up the pieces, “What’s wrong, Kyoya?”

He just kept shaking his head, the scratching providing no cathartic release of his swirling thoughts and emotions, everything blurring together into some undersaturated mess of colours. He was surprised he didn’t pass out; even if it was all in his head, it all seemed like the world would tilt sideways and fade to black at any moment.

“Kyoya, come on, you need to calm down,” Yoshio tried to soothe, but Kyoya just shook his head again, wool-clad fingers twining in his hair and yanking. The dull pain was something but not enough, tugging harder and harder until his father managed to pry apart his grip on the dull strands. Yoshio held his hands in his own, so tightly that Kyoya couldn’t pull away, the wool rubbing against bitten, calloused skin almost painfully.

“You need to talk when you get upset, not hurt yourself,” His father’s voice was so… pained. Subdued, but so plainly, blatantly upset that the guilt fell to the bottom of Kyoya’s stomach like a rock, “I’m trying, Kyoya… Can you _please_ try and do the same? Meet me half way?”

The sad thing was, he couldn’t. He couldn’t, and that was supposed to be for everyone’s sake, not his own. So people wouldn’t get hurt, get sick, or die. He couldn’t let them. He couldn’t be alone, he couldn’t let that happen.

He was the only one who should be miserable, and he hated that his father was only being dragged down by the whole thing. It made him wonder if he really should try to meet his father half way; take his pills, use his fidget toy, talk… But he wouldn’t succeed, and everyone would just suffer the consequences. His father shouldn’t be his _carer_ , however. He didn’t deserve that.

After all; like mother, like son.


End file.
